The Day You Went Away
by CycloneT
Summary: In the beginning, my dreams were full of him. [DoggettReyes]


Title: The Day You Went Away

Author: Tracy

Category: Angst, DRR, Monica POV

Rating: G

Summary: Who do you turn to, when you're alone? 

WARNING: Story revolves around character death. But please read anyway. Sometimes, things aren't always as they seem.

XxX

I remember the exact moment when the light died. Snuffed out as if it had never been, I suddenly found myself floating in a grey kaleidoscope of nothingness that I could see no way out of. It wasn't as if I didn't try, because I did. Eventually. But in the beginning – in the beginning I admit I welcomed it. Nothingness was so much easier, so less painful than the acute vibrancy of life. In the beginning, I would hear people talking in hushed tones. They would hover on the edge of my consciousness and tip toe around me as if they were scared to draw my attention onto themselves. It was easy to ignore them. I just wanted to be left alone. My grief at that stage was too raw, to sharp to be put on display. I was barely aware when one day ended, and another started. Somehow they all seemed to blend into one continuous cycle of condolences and sympathy. I didn't want to hear their condolences. I certainly didn't want to hear their sympathy. How could any of them even begin to understand what I was feeling? They couldn't, and I resented each and every one of them for it. I know now that they were worried and concerned and grieving themselves, but I was locked in my own grief, and couldn't see past the one single thought that had taken possession of my mind. I wanted him back. 

In the beginning, I clung to the hope that somehow, someway we could be together again. The realist in me told me this was impossible. But the woman in me whispered his name, over and over again. As if I could call him back to my side if my belief was strong enough. I wanted so much to believe that my determination would be enough, but I could not. I knew the truth and it was not one to be denied, no matter how I willed it differently. So I raged at the injustice of it, I screamed at the unfairness of it, and I eventually cried at the unending sorrow of it. But Death cares nothing for justice or unfairness or grief. Death is coldly implacable and completely dispassionate about whom it takes and whom it doesn't, and I hated it with my whole being. In the end I came to understand the void between life and death, and I even understood why it had to be that way. But it didn't change how I felt. I longed to be able to touch him – just once more, if for no other reason than to say the goodbye that I never got the chance to say. 

In the beginning, my dreams were full of him. Every time I closed my eyes, he would come. Every time I opened them, I would see him. Asleep, awake – it made no difference. He haunted me, regardless. I clung to his visitations. It was as if he was still with me, as if I hadn't lost him completely. I missed him in those rare instances when he was gone, and welcomed him when he returned. Not everyone understood though. They thought I should move on with my life, that it was unhealthy to keep living in the past. I didn't care. Again, it was easy to ignore them. Only one voice had the courage to stand for me, and I appreciated it more than words could ever convey. We were hesitant around each other at first; he especially didn't want to make a difficult period even more so. But we persevered with the awkwardness and eventually I began to look forward to his visits as well. In time he even managed to lessen the pain of separation a little. Not a lot, I couldn't say that, but he certainly helped. He didn't judge, he didn't presume on my grief, and didn't feel the need to fill the silences with empty platitudes. He let me be when I needed solitude, and attended me when I needed company. It was an arrangement that suited us both.

XxX

"You can't stay this way forever, you know," he said to me one day.

I looked at him in surprise. He'd never criticised my way of dealing with things before. "What do you mean?" I asked carefully, not sure I really wanted to know.

"I mean waiting here, for him. It's not healthy."

"It's what I need to do," I replied softly. "Seeing him – it's very important to me. I thought you understood that."

His eyes filled with pity, and he made a tentative reach towards me. At the last moment his hand dropped back into his lap, as if he were embarrassed of the significance of the gesture. "I do understand. More than anyone else does, I think. I'm just saying that the time has come for you to move on."

"You dare to talk to me about moving on?" I jumped up from my chair, and paced the room angrily. I was absolutely fuming. I thought he was different from everyone else, and after everything I'd been through his sudden judgement was like a betrayal. "Do you have any idea what I've lost? I just can't forget about it – forget about him because someone says the designated time period that I'm allowed to grieve is over."

"No one is saying that, but –"

"Yes, you are. You're saying that life must go on, blah blah blah. I know that. I see it everyday, whizzing past me at an unspeakable speed. But it cares nothing for my grief or loneliness or loss, so why should I care about it?"

"Because people you love are still living it," he said quite bluntly. "That's why you should care. Death isn't personal you know, it happens to everyone. We're born, we live and then we die. But you're the one who taught me that no one ever really dies, because their memory stays in the hearts of those who love them forever. Don't you believe that anymore?"

I smiled in spite of myself. Quoting my own words back to me to make his point. I knew he was right. I knew it, I believed it, but I still wasn't giving up my visitations.

"It's a cycle," he added. "And this one is almost at an end."

I looked at him carefully. "You know that? For sure?"

He smiled sadly. "Yes, for sure. It won't be long now." He turned away and cocked his head, and when he turned back tears were welling in his eyes. "He's calling you."

My own head shot up in surprise, and I listened carefully for a moment, hearing nothing but the ticking of an unseen clock. Then my heart started beating again, because suddenly I *could* hear him, calling my name like he always used to.

"Monica? Mon, where are you?"

"Here, I'm right here," I called, and watched as he materialised in front of me.

He strode over to me and caught me in his arms, running his fingers through my hair and saying over and over again, "I've missed you. God, I've missed you."

"John," I laughed and cried at the same time into his shoulder, revelling in finally being able to feel him again. But I wanted to see his eyes, to see if I looked the same to him as he looked to me. So I lifted my head and the eyes that had haunted me ever since I'd gone away showed me that the years had indeed been stripped from me as they had from him. The same eyes that lived in our eldest grandson, who was John all over again, and who could see things no one else could. 

"You can go in peace now, Grandma. You've got who you were waiting for."

End.


End file.
